Wednesday, May 31, 2017

I grew up in Ventura, California, a small, sleepy beach
town an hour north of Los Angeles. There wasn’t much to do. But there were
miles of beautiful, empty beaches. The Pacific Ocean pulled us toward her like
iron filings to a magnet.

Perched out on the horizon were the Channel Islands,
uninhabited chunks of California that seemingly broke off the mainland and
drifted out to sea. I can’t tell you how many hours I stared at those
mysterious alien lands and wondered just how terrifying it must have been for
the Chumash to paddle their river reed canoes over the open maw of the sea to
fish her coves and sleep exhausted on her sandy leeward beaches.

All summer long someone’s mom would drop us off at the
beach with our Styrofoam boards and small inflated rafts. All day long we’d
ride the waves on our bellies, learning how to read the shifting plane of the
water, an energy field without beginning or end. The feel of hot sand under
bare feet, the smell of Coppertone, and the taste of fifty cent grilled cheese
sandwiches from the State Beach snack bar are embedded deep in my amygdala. And
the never-the-same-twice shifting face of the sea and sky. I didn’t know it
then, but I was learning the lesson of impermanence, and how the beauty of the
world lives not in its surface forms, but in the mystery hidden just beneath
them.

At the rocky points and deep water reef breaks we saw the
older guys surfing, riding hard boards made of fiberglass and resin, daring to
stand as equals with waves as big as houses. Because we loved the sea and knew
her so well it was the next logical step – to leave the safety of the shore, to
go deeper, and commit completely.

My mom bought me my first surfboard at a neighborhood
garage sale. I immediately broke the fin standing on it on the lawn. She brought
home a swath of fiberglass and a can of resin from the hardware store. “There,”
she said, “now you can fix it.”

I spent that summer learning how to stand up on my board,
surfing small beach breaks near the pier. Late one August afternoon after the
dry Santa Anas softened and the air hung thick and hot, I caught a long left in
the evening glass. I rode that wave for what seemed like ages. It just kept
rising up to meet me, its concave face reflecting the fiery sunset above, like
I were engulfed in flame. My breath caught in my throat. A feeling of belonging
swept through me so overwhelming I nearly wept. I felt at once deeply at home
in this strange world, and deeply at home in my own skin. For an awkward adolescent
this was a revelation – to no longer feel like a stranger in a strange land.

That Christmas I got my first O’Neil wetsuit. It cost a
lot. It was a big sacrifice for my working class mom and dad. They knew I was
serious. And the fact that they took me seriously was empowering. It helps when
the people who love you believe you are capable of things before you are. It carries
you through the difficulties ahead.

There were many dark mornings paddling out before high
school in the freezing winter air. There were big winter swells that churned
the water and turned your stomach. But the challenge pulled you forward. You
knew this sea, you knew this break, even if each looming wave on the horizon
was a treacherous stranger. Facing them, you face yourself.

Everything changed when we got our own cars. My first car
was a 1954 Studebaker Champion station wagon, rescued from Mr. Steinberg’s
garage across the street where it had languished abandoned and broken for
decades. My oldest brother Eric, ten years my senior, eager for yet another
automotive restoration project, hauled that rusted hulk into our family garage
and together (o.k., mostly him) we stripped it down and rebuilt it. Once it was
operational I mounted surf racks on the roof. Now me and my friends could range
much farther up and down the coast, no longer beholden to mom’s ride or the
contraption we’d rigged up to haul our boards to the beach behind our bikes.

My next car was a 1968 Datsun 510 wagon, a far more
trustworthy and reliable transport. Teenagers with cars. You know the rest. You
know the trouble I got into in that car. The bong hidden under the seat, the
girls, parking at the beach at night, but not for the surfing.

Every chance we got my best friend Steve and I would load
our boards onto the roof and head up the coast checking every break between
Ventura and Rincon Point. The best days were when the beach breaks broke into
perfect, clean lefts and rights and the sun came out from behind the overcast
and the water sparkled under your board as you flew up and down laughing,
breathing hard, feeling alive and free because the sea does that to you – it
strips away everything that’s unessential leaving you awake and aloft in the
heart of your own best life.

Maybe I liked surfing because it was an essentially
solitary sport. You paddled out with a friend, but often spent the day out
of range of each other, both on your own lonely hunt for the next wave. Unlike
most sports, there was no clock – no beginning, no end. No one was keeping
score. No one had to lose so that you could win. You simply abandoned yourself
to the will of nature, and did what you could to quiet yourself and move into
accord with it. You cannot impose your will upon the sea – instead, you must
relinquish your will and slip into deep cooperation with her vast and enigmatic
design. Surfing teaches you to wait. It teaches you how to align your energies
with the energies of the cosmos moving around you. It teaches you to stop interfering
and start cooperating.

When I began studying the world’s wisdom traditions in
Professor Barret Culmback’s philosophy classes at Ventura College, I had years
of lived experience in the sea to frame and contextualize the insights his
lectures and readings afforded. The real revelation came when I read the Daodejing, the 6th century
B.C.E. book of Chinese wisdom by Laozi. I immediately understood what Laozi
meant by wu wei, or effortless effort
– that the best action is natural, spontaneous, creative, and unforced action
in harmony with current conditions. When we blindly impose our arbitrary
preferences and plans onto the fluid reality around us we fail. When we move
with the current, on the other hand, we amplify our effort and achieve more by
doing less.

In the end it isn’t books, lectures, or teachers, no
matter how profound, that awaken us to our own best life. It is the lived
experience of our days. If we pay attention. It is of course possible to live
one’s entire life and never realize a thing. But every life offers a sea of
opportunity to awaken to the wisdom we see, feel, and are. If we’re curious, brave, open-minded, open-hearted, and
willing to take risks, the waves of life become our teacher.

Monday, May 22, 2017

The world’s creation myths pose an essential set of questions. What is the relationship between the creator and the created? Are the two separated by an unbridgeable chasm, or are they two aspects of one fundamental unity?

In every story it’s the same. The primal unity splits into a duality, and from the duality a multiplicity pours forth – from one comes two and from two come the ten thousand things – for it is only in this way that the sacred source can know itself: in relationship.

In Egyptian mythology Atum, all alone, mates with his shadow and expectorates the primal male and female gods Shu and Tefnut. In Greek mythology the primal goddess Gaia creates her own partner Uranos, and from their union all the other gods are born. In the Mayan Popul Vuh God longs for humans who will love him and say his name, and goes through several failed human prototypes before he perfects us. In all of these origin stories one theme remains constant – creation is a manifestation of the generative energy of love. It is a great cosmic loneliness that begets the creation of the world and everything in it. Love, literally, makes the world.

When we create – whether it’s an artwork, a tech start-up, or a home-cooked meal – we participate in this same sacred unfolding. In any creation process, we become a channel through which pours the primal creativity of the cosmos itself.

This dynamic is beautifully expressed in the Vedanta tradition of the Indian Upanishads. In Sanskrit, the sacred source is called Brahman, from the root bhri meaning “emergence.” Brahman is not a personified god – it is the sacred formless source of all things, including the gods. We too are Brahman, and like everything else, are emanations of this divine singularity. It is Brahman’s nature to pour forth ever-new and beautiful forms. This therefore is our nature as well.

When you feel the creative urge, pay attention. It is a sacred calling, a God-nudge to participate in the one unfolding that arises unceasingly from the primal ground of being. We make use of the things we create, but we do not create for ourselves – we create so that the universe can continue giving form to itself. Your songs, poems, paintings, films, and solutions to problems – all of it – are action-prayers, ritual participation in the birthing of the real. Christian mystic Meister Eckhart put it this way: “We are all meant to be mothers of God. God is always needing to be born.”

What if you don’t feel inspired? Can you still create if you’re not feeling it? The answer is yes. We must. Creation is not a hobby, a trifle, or a pass-time to while away the hours. It is far more necessary than that. It is self-indulgent to stand idly by, waiting for inspiration. As contemporary visual artist Chuck Close put it, “Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.”

Creativity is work. Suit up, show up, and put your tools in your hands. “Inspiration exists,” said Picasso, “but it has to find you working.”

Stop waiting. Get out of your own way. Take your mind off of the finished product, and put it squarely into process itself. As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than arrive.” By your participation alone, you are signaling your readiness, willingness, and openness to the creative flow that you are.

And the final realization is this – each of us is an artist and our masterpiece is our life. It is not the objects and art-forms we craft that have the most lasting value; it is our virtue, integrity, and loving-kindness that best express our sacred origin. When we lovingly participate in the healing of the world we are the divine eternal Mother-Father manifesting in the field of time. When we awaken to this realization we become this realization, and get down to the messy business of birthing the world anew.

[This piece was originally published in my column called "A to Zen" in the May/June 2017 issue of Unity Magazine, and is reproduced here with permission.]